Fashion Sense
by damnitjillkatherine
Summary: El gets his jacket back. Sands gets a nice thank-you. (Bit of slash.)


Fashion Sense

Disclaimer: Mine, all mine! Muahaha! (coughyeahright)

Rating: PG-13. Bit of slash.

Summary: El gets his jacket back. Sands gets a nice thank-you.

* * *

They were sitting at the bar in a small, respectable cantina outside of Cuilican. Well, respectable by their standards; the tequila didn't taste like piss, it stank only a little, and the musicians were almost as good as 'The' and his entourage. They had gone through one bottle of alcohol and were starting on their second when El's attention was suddenly drawn across the room; Sands felt him tense and looked up from his slice of lime. 

"What?" The mariachi started to move; Sands flicked his cane at his heels, clinking as it hit spurs. "Hey, dónde el fuck are you going?"

"El Presidente is over there," was the reply, as if that answered everything. With no eyes to roll, Sands had to settle for an exasperated sigh. He flicked his lime rind at the other man, hitting him square in the back.

"Fine. Goddamn noble-ass gee-tar man. Go socialize with the upper class and leave me here to wallow in drunken misery on my own." El paused to look thoughtfully at the blind gunfighter.

"You're not miserable, are you?"

"Oh, shut up you righteous, thick-headed Mexican and go talk to el glorious Presidente. I won't go anywhere." The mariachi shrugged and crossed the dance floor, taking care not to get drawn in or step on anyone. Sands pouted and discreetly searched the bar top to find El's lime.

"Hey, he practically got the whole fucking fruit! No fair!" Swiftly he chopped the piece of fruit in half with one of the throwing knives hidden in his sleeve, fully cognizant of missing his own fingers by a fraction of an inch and loving the fact that he had the skill to do so. As he stuffed his stolen prize into his mouth, El walked back up to the bar. Sands gave the musician a green smile then grimaced and spit the lime out.

"Fuck that's sour. You sound different," he said suspiciously. He heard, or maybe felt, El grin.

"He returned my jacket." Sands raised an eyebrow, an eye-related maneuver that he was very proud of still being able to perform, and crossed his arms.

"About time. I knew it couldn't have fit the President, and that god-awful thing he gave you after… afterwards, was just terrible. I can't believe you kept wearing it." He retrieved the chewed-up slice of lime and proceeded to gnaw on it some more. He could feel El staring at him and looked up.

"What?" he said irritably. El shook his head.

"Nothing."

"Good. Then lets blow this popsicle stand." He stood up, tossed back his the rest of his drink, fished a few coins out of his pocket, tossed them on the bar, and headed unerringly for the door, swinging his cane subtly from side to side. El followed in his wake, not completely understanding the American colloquialism and settling for a question in response.

"Why?"

"Jesus Allah Buddha, I swear, you should have put a question mark on the back of that damn jacket instead of a fucking scorpion. We're leaving so that you can show off your retrieved article of clothing and so that I can relieve stress in some way other than shooting out the entire goddamn cantina. Get your rear in gear, mariachi."

El let out a positively long-suffering sigh and followed his dangerous partner out the door into the dirty, dimly lit street. He stepped up his pace to catch the American, and then grabbed him by the upper arm. Sands spun around to face him, nose almost touching the other man's, dark sunglasses reflecting dark eyes.

"What?" he snapped.

"That was your doing. You arranged for el Presidente to meet us here, didn't you?" Sands smirked.

"Not bad, music man; you're getting better. Want a biscuit?"

"Why?" Sands sighed and rolled his shoulders; did this guy say _anything_ that didn't end in a fucking question mark?

"Because, El, amigo – listen to me, you'll probably never hear me say this again –although you may be a great Son of México, a talented musician, and a pretty good shot, you have a horrible sense of fashion. Now, let go of me." He managed a scowl and a smirk at the same time. El did not let go.

"How can you tell? You cannot see what I wear."

"You're welcome," the former agent gritted out, smirk turning in to a snarl.

"Grácias," El said quickly, realizing that what he had just said was not really very smart. Sands lightened up a little then looked down, at where El's hand was still on his arm, and then back up at the mariachi's face; of course he did not really need to "look" down, but it helped to get a point across. The tanned hand relaxed its grip a bit, but did not let go, and the attached body moved closer.

"I think," said the mariachi slowly, "that I will have to thank you properly for returning my jacket to me." Sands grinned wickedly as El dragged him towards the car.

"Hmm. I really must do nice things for you more often. Mmph."

* * *

A/N: Round two. I have no friggin clue how Raphe1 read this the first time I uploaded it; it had some mistakes that I wanted to correct and I removed it right away. Not as quickly as I thought, I guess. So here it is again. And thanks to Raphe1 for the lovely comment; what're you doing, stalking me! ;) Hee. 

I really like El's scorpion jacket and can't stand the thought of him not getting it back. Thus, I attempt to explain how it gets returned. :D The colorful curse "Jesus Allah Buddha" came from one of my all-time _favorite _comics, Friendly Hostility, by K. Sandra Fuhr; if she doesn't want me using it, I certainly won't. Also, I have this quote kicking around in my head, "goddamn holier-than-thou gee-tar man," and I'm pretty sure it came from a fic by guede-mazaka (who is, like, my hero), so if she doesn't like me using a sort of bastardized version of that quote, I most certainly won't. And, of course, my slashy brain would not let me get away with a tame ending. Love it or leave it. :)


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